


Pictures Are Wack But So Are Words

by celestialbluerose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Art Thieves AU, But So Too Is Jehan, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Jehan Is Non-Binary, Montparnasse Is Emo, Multi, Other, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialbluerose/pseuds/celestialbluerose
Summary: It's been six years since Montparnasse last set foot in Paris, at first he doesn't know how he'll manage to cross the state border without stopping to die a little. As it is, Gueulemer is driving so he doesn't really have to worry much. When they stop at a gas station just on the outskirts of the city, Montparnasse takes a deep breath, opens the car door, sets foot to ground, and, surprisingly, the world doesn't explode.aka Patron-Minette returns to Paris after leaving six years ago and dallies in small time gigs like Art Thievery, but every time they arrive at the scene the painting is already gone AU





	1. Prologue

It was their first job back in his home city, how many years had it been? Was the number even as tangible as words would make it seem? It felt like just yesterday that his fingers were carding through Eponine’s dark hair, felt like just yesterday that he’d held a damp small Gavroche in his arms. And what of Paris? These dirty streets masquerading themselves as the picture of beauty, they hadn’t changed one bit; Paris the city where he could call himself clean, but only in comparison with the other rot that haunted her streets deep into the night.

The van pulled to a stop a street away from the mark, Gueulemer turned around in the driver’s seat, his hulking body shaking the van. “You ready?”

Montparnasse sighed, both fond and annoyed, Gueulemer asked every time without fail, as though convinced Montparnasse was the same little spitfire the Patron Minette had sheltered all those years ago. The words were a formality at best, Montparnasse would do the job whether ready or not, just like Gueulemer would drive away without him if things got too hot. Their friendship was one of mutual giving’s, both pulling out when most convenient for their own gain. It was this quality that characterized Patron Minette as a whole, but it was for this reason Montparnasse knew he could trust them; emotions like love sit on the other side of hate, too volatile and too shifty. Things like money and mutual gain; those he could trust.

“Really, Gueulemer? As if I’ve ever failed a job before.” Montparnasse mumbled as an afterthought, he slid his backpack around his thin shoulders.

“Yeah, yeah, kid, get out of here! Knock ‘em dead! At least not literally, Babet’s still pissed about last time and—

Montparnasse didn’t hear the ending of Gueulemer’s rant, effectively cutting him off by slamming the van’s back door. When Gueulemer got started the only one who could shut him up was Claquesous; even Babet had walked out on him mid-rant before.

It was one of the colder nights in Paris, and the wind ate at him as he walked towards the target’s residence. He went over the details once more in his head; young lawyer upstart type spending a lot of daddy’s money to establish himself; and the piece a striking new take on a history often covered up. The series isn’t notorious by any means, but some people would pay a pretty penny to have it. Claquesous would know; he was the one who sold the painting to the young lawyer in the first place.

And Montparnasse, well Montparnasse is coming to collect. You know the story: future ventures and opportunities and the like, it’s a big world out there, and there’s always money to exchange hands, even more for a piece that’s notorious enough to be stolen.

People so often love the things they can’t have.

Oh, irony.

Getting into the building is easy work, Montparnasse is a professional, the young lawyer, with his unnecessarily large house on the borders of the city, seemed it proficient enough to install an alarm and end it with that. No cameras (which, really, was a shame, since no one else would get to see the spectacle in action, he is too good for even himself sometimes), no motion detectors, he’d even had to deal with lasers once (No, it is not as sexy as every movie ever makes it seem, Eponine.). This job was too easy, the poor lawyer was begging to be robbed, if not by art thieves then certainly by any thief willing to make a name for himself in Thénardier territory.

Montparnasse still didn’t know where to place himself on the spectrum, art thief sure, but he didn’t quite know what to make of Babet’s sudden desire to return to Paris, their home town, but also the territory of the Thénardier mob. Patron-Minette compared to their long history here was just another upstart.

Either way, there was nothing to give Montparnasse away for now, so he’d do as he pleased.

Montparnasse, feeling nostalgic, decided to use a window to get in, of course he could have just used the door since he disabled the alarm system, but then, where’s the fun in that?

Heaving himself up and over, feet settling on expensive wood tiling, Montparnasse thought back to the good old days; burglary has always been his favorite occupation. How vile to invade the highest form of sanctuary held by so many people, how charming to waltz right into the thick of their lives; their messages on fridges, their closets full of expensive suits, their beds where they tuck themselves away every night trusting the irrational notion that because here they’ve always been safe then here they always _will be_.

Yes, Montparnasse loves this part the most; he joins them, but not for very long, and takes a piece of them with him; sometimes they won’t notice he’s done it, not for a long time, but sometimes the response is immediate; they wake in the night, noticing something amiss, and suddenly even their own home is an enemy to them.

Other times, times like now, when he has a real job to do, the response gives him some measure of comedic value. Oh, poor Francis, upstart lawyer, splurging on a painting he doesn’t even like in hopes to seem more appealing to potential clients. The worst of it was that young Francis the lawyer hadn’t even taken the time to hang the painting in his offices where it would most assuredly not help him; Young Francis left the piece at home, too busy attending dinner parties and Broadway shows to pass on to his maid, lovely woman Montparnasse found during reconnaissance, that she not hang it in the house but leave it out to be picked up by the movers. And so, it sits in one of the long winding hallways, beady eyes staring out at passerby’s because Medina, the maid, thought it best served there rather than packaged in the entryway.

It’s to that hallway Montparnasse goes now, Young Francis (if that even is his name, Montparnasse could give a many less fucks) out for the night none less the wiser.

Montparnasse silences his steps just for the practice, moves along the shadows, his old friends. He’s every bit about as confident as he’s ever been, lush with the ease in which the job could be handled.

Of course, the rush of being found gets him going anytime, but the easy confidence in a job that’s just _too easy_ , makes his steps light and his smirk clear even in the dark.

And young Francis just has _godawful_ taste in upholstery, those drapes, and those blinds? Montparnasse has done better hopped up on LSD.

It’s not long before he smells it, he notices it only because it precisely does not mix with anything else in the gaudy over sized home. It smells heavily of perfume, but rather than cloying it’s…comforting, rather than chemical there’s a taste of freshness; something earthy.

It throws Montparnasse for a loop, and when he rounds the corner of the hall he sees it; the spot Medina hung the painting is empty, no not empty, where once the painting stood there is a small card. Written in flowing calligraphic script, it says:

> _What did thine eyes see?_
> 
> _What of Republic, in those_
> 
> _Blackened pupils, what of_
> 
> _Revolution?_
> 
> _Of red, red_
> 
> _Red._

Montparnasse isn’t even thinking as he reaches out, as his fingers slide over smooth card-stock. He isn’t even put out, just so. Suddenly. Blindsided. Absently he takes the card, and slides it in his pocket. The smell envelopes him, but he shakes his head, trying to regain his senses. (yet his fingers linger in his pocket)

“Babet’s going to have my fucking head for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the start of a journey. I feel obligated to mention that this will be updated very irregularly and is mostly being written for a friend. But otherwise...enjoy? If I fudge Jeahn's pronouns feel free to decimate me in the comments.
> 
> Also special note, the painting stolen in this chapter and referenced in the beginning of the next is no. 13 of Zhang Xiaogang's Bloodline series. Any recommendations of paintings for the emo boys to steal and me to write bad poetry about would be welcome (also I don't really care if those paintings aren't physically found in Paris in the Real World; this is fiction)


	2. And Then, They Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Eponine, rising from the pit of the stage, in a haze of smoke and silver light. Montparnasse stands in the shadows at stage left, and he cannot reach her, the path is obscured by the smoke and he can't hear his thoughts amid the rallying cries of the orchestra. Eponine waves a hand, and there--total silence.

Eponine lives somewhere else now, in the six years since Montparnasse has been gone, she’s really established herself, or made some rich friends. She doesn’t live in the lap of luxury by any measure, but when he starts asking around; hitting up old spots and even older acquaintances, he learns that she finally moved from the shithole apartment they used to rent; the one with the peeling paint and exposed ceiling. Now her apartment building borders the nicer side of the Seine, and it’s faintly glowing where the sunlight can fight its way through the clouds. The air is thick with the smell of early morning dew, because of the light shower that accompanied him during his commute there. And though the rain has stopped, the clouds have only grown darker and darker. He rings the buzzer and supposes it’s better this way, really the old apartment was no place to raise Gavroche. Still Montparnasse can’t help the irrational feeling of betrayal that sits quietly in his stomach. Some sick part of him wants her to be the same as him. And he doesn’t want to admit it, so he doesn’t. As he waits the sunlight is slowly extinguished, covered by another hulking grey cloud, and if that isn’t an omen, he’s not sure what is.

It’s surreal to stand on the new doorstep of an old friend. He knows that today Eponine doesn’t work the early shift at the Corinthe and that Gavroche has already left for school. Eponine is here and alone, but for some reason that doesn’t make it any easier. He can predict her movements, and chart the places she’s visited, but everything is different. Montparnasse’s own absence making itself known in her routine and everything about the apartment building; it’s bright cheery exterior, the tacky welcome mat, even the fern growing by the door. Nothing is familiar to Montparnasse, even more so because it feels like it _should be_.

He wonders if last night’s failure hit him harder than he thought; Montparnasse starts thinking about turning back, considers it, almost does, but the door opens before he can move—

And there she is, looking not a day older than when he left, no, that’s not true, she’s not as pale now, and her hair is longer. She’s even got enough weight on her bones to be considered healthy. She’s glowing, vibrant, _happy._ It takes everything in him to muster up his old smirk, to hold himself just so, as though the wind brought him here on a whim, it takes everything in him, but he does it. He didn’t think it would affect him this much but suddenly six years feels like six decades. He thinks of all the missed moments, of all the times Eponine must have cried without his shoulder to punch in anger, and all the times she laughed without him to hear it. With a hand on his hip, leaning slightly backward, he feels more like an imposter than ever.

For the first couple seconds Eponine does nothing, staring, mouth slack, in open shock. And of course, Montparnasse would be the last person she’d expect at her door, but she should have known, this charming yet terrible boy, when had he ever cared for anyone’s expectations of him? The next moment is quick as lighting: Eponine’s fist lands squarely on Montparnasse’s nose. Six years without even a single word.

“Fuck Eponine!”

She grabs a fistful of his perfectly combed hair, dragging his face down within an inch of her own, “What do you fucking have to say for yourself ‘Parnasse?”

 “…That, I’ve really really missed you?”

Eponine is furious when she yanks her fingers from his hair. She opens her mouth and closes it, gestures to his nose, to him in general, but she doesn’t even know what to make of the gestures or what she’s trying to say, and her anger is such a visceral thing that it chokes her. She sends him one last seething glance before stalking back into the apartment.

That’s his Eponine alright, and she can hold a grudge. But, well, she left the door open, so there’s that. Montparnasse holds a hand to his gushing nose, determined not to make a mess of his jacket, and follows her inside.

Eponine’s apartment is small and cluttered; each room spilling into the next. The living room is dim; the weak sunlight unable to penetrate the dark purple curtains. Unexpectedly, the wall leading to the living room is full of pictures, a younger Eponine and Gavroche, her hair short like he remembered it, and then another more recent of the two of them. In it, Gavroche is almost to Eponine’s shoulders, holding himself in a way unknown to Montparnasse, and smirking into the camera. There’s a stark difference from the small boy with the large toothy smile that he used to know. In some photos Gavroche and Eponine pose or are being caught off guard with people he doesn’t recognize. Alongside the photographs are paintings, varying in mood and composition, from recreations of old masterpieces to comic book heroes, but all signed with the same curly ‘R’.

Montparnasse plops himself down on the grey pullout couch, the cushions are firm, but comfortable, having seen a fair amount of wear and tear. The silence stretches, emphasized by Eponine’s faint rustling from what looks to be the kitchen.

When Eponine turns, she doesn’t look furious to see him on her couch, making himself comfortable, but she doesn’t look forgiving either. She sighs and walks back into the living room, throwing the dishtowel to the floor near him as she passes, “for your fucking face,” she mutters. Eponine sits on the lounge chair across from him, all her limbs taut and her face carefully blank. All that’s missing is a bright lamp on the coffee table that Eponine could shine in his face and scream: “who do you work for?” But it’s not a movie, and he doesn’t need a lamp to feel caught out. Montparnasse is not sure he’s ever heard her sound so cold.

“I’m surprised you still have these,” He says, holding up the dishtowel in question, before pressing it to his nose to staunch the blood. Montparnasse bought them in the beginning. When Montparnasse was young and angry and Eponine was tired of washing out blood stains. He’s trying to remind her of how close they were, how for Christmas that year he’d stolen them as a joke and chimed delightfully when she’d opened it, a look of fond exasperation on her face, that now she could stop complaining.

She ignores his attempt to reminisce completely, rubbing her temples as though the situation physically pains her,“It seems stupid now. To have kept them.”

Montparnasse doesn’t know what to make of that. His first instinct is to flaunt, to be charming, to be persuasive, but he doesn’t know what tricks will work on her anymore; no longer understands where to draw the line. It dawns on him suddenly and awfully that Eponine is a stranger.

And his words are venomous suddenly, “I see you’re doing pretty well for yourself,” aimed to hurt. His vision is blurring, and his fingernails digging into the cushion of the arm rest. It’s been so long since he considered himself anything but strong, he wonders if he was putting on a front even for himself.

“Yeah,” she says looking him straight in the eyes refusing to be apologetic, or even hurt, “yeah, I guess I have.” He thinks it’s going to be another silent showdown, another waiting game, but to his surprise Eponine keeps talking.

“Gavroche used to ask about you all the time at first…” She sounds nonchalant, short fingers picking at the rips on her leggings, as though she’s stating facts from another life. “But by the end of that first year he stopped mentioning you altogether.”

He swallows thickly, and the sound of ripping fabric lingers in the air. Everything about the gesture seems so incredibly young, and he remembers suddenly that she can’t keep still when she’s anxious, the action slotting into place form some sense memory that’s overlapped by thousands like it.

“Ep—Eponine I—”

She interrupts him, “I couldn’t tell him you were dead. But I—we both…we both thought it.”

Montparnasse has done a lot of unforgivable deeds in his lifetime, almost too many to count. But he could never forgive himself if he didn’t try to win her back right now.

“Eponine,” his voice is serious, but he doesn’t meet her eyes, “I swear to you, that I would not have left if I didn’t absolutely have to. If I could have come back a moment sooner, I would have. I couldn’t put you in danger by staying; no matter what. It wasn’t worth it.” It feels grimy to offer this as an excuse, and he can’t make himself meet her eyes.

He doesn’t expect the bitten off sob from across the living room. It happens so fast he’s raising his gaze to see her, Eponine, a woman who stands and has stood so strong throughout _everything_ , furiously blinking away tears but making no move to wipe them away. Montparnasse is shocked into silence and has never felt more repentant in his life.

“Y’know… for this to actually work, for me to not feel like a fucking _idiot_ for letting you in,” Eponine’s voice wavers, the sound wet and suffocating, “you’re going to have to give me _something—_

“He could have found you.” Eponine freezes but says nothing. “Ep, he could have found you, and if he knew about Gavroche, he would have come to collect.”

When she exhales she does so slowly, dispelling the tension from her shoulders; when she speaks her voice is high but controlled, these years have taught her that screaming does no good; the next day will come regardless bearing a sore throat and the same old shit circumstances.

“Is it safe here again?” Her tone is cutting, and Montparnasse wants to be shocked at the insinuation, but he also knows that’s unfair to her, after all he’s put her through. He sighs and gives the only answer he can.

“I swear on you and Gavroche.” Her laugh is jagged rocks against the building pulse behind his eyes. This couldn’t have gone worse.

“You already proved how much we’re worth to you.”

“Then I swear on _Fantine_.”

“Don’t…Don’t use her fucking name like that, is this a game to you?”

“Eponine, you’ve asked me for all I have, and I’ve given it to you.”

“No, Parnasse. You’re fucking wrong about that. Because I’m asking for proof those six years hurt like hell. Proof they’re worth whatever bullshit notion of safety you’ve decided on. Hell, me and Gav aren’t _safe_. We’ve _never_ been. Nothing you do is gonna change that! …I want proof that those six years of my life I lost grieving you were _for_ something. Something other than our goddamn “safety”.  As if I’ve ever asked any of you for something like that!”

Montparnasse wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll stop breaking everything he touches. It’s with a bitter laugh that he resolves no, something like that will never happen, not for him, not with the things he does. But what Montparnasse also knows, is that he is selfish, and he will take those broken things, jagged edges and all, and plunge them right into his heart if he must. His blood will be on their hands; they wouldn’t be able to escape if they wanted to, he’d hold them to it. It’s not right. Cognitively he knows this; it’s underhanded and cruel and disgusting. But he is all those things anyway. This is not new to him. He should let Eponine go. If he really cared about her safety, he would have cut her off a long time ago. But she’s right, Montparnasse has never cared about safety, not his or anyone else’s. So, he won’t do it. So, he came back. He came to her doorstep because deep inside he wanted someone to sit in this with him; he _needed_ her too. He has Patron Minette, he has Paris in all her dirtiest forms, for all intents and purposes he even has Thenardier in the palm of his hand. But none of those things is Eponine. None of those things are blissfully unaware of how dirty he really is; none have the illusion that they love him, or at least used to, but her. And Montparnasse wants that. He can remember the exact look and feel of Gavroche in his arms, the small warm bundle that was too fragile for his dirty hands. The smell of milk and birth mingling in with Eponine’s jagged smell of whiskey cinnamon. Eponine glaring at anyone who looked at her too long from underneath her crew-cut bangs, the way she held everything as though it could be used as a weapon. He did not think love was the right word to describe it. Love would have kept him away. Instead it was a bone-deep ache, and it surfaced anytime he thought of her too long. What could he say that she would believe? What truth could he feed her when even he did not know the answer himself?

Patron Minette spent six years travelling Europe strengthening their reputation and establishing a more permanent presence in Russia, Babet’s home. Legally they were fugitives of France, but when had Montparnasse ever followed the law, especially when there was something he wanted on the line? The fugitive pull wouldn’t work. What was it then? Was it that he found a home in the beds of people he knew for one night at most, and the lure was so sweet he didn’t want to go? Was it the way blood felt on his fingers? Was it the feeling of losing? Montparnasse is so sure of himself. But he has never been sure of anything else. He doesn’t know what kept him. He doesn’t have an answer. He finds himself, suddenly, looking at his hands. His long thin bony hands, he unfurls them and makes fists again and again. He doesn’t have an answer, because there is none.

It does not take Eponine long to realize this. New Eponine of six years has picked up some things it seems. She understands that Montparnasse’s silence is not him trying to formulate a complex believable answer (and she so desperately wants to understand, even a little, because this man is worth so much, has done so much) but rather that his silence _is_ his answer. And so viscerally that she actually stumbles a little from standing up so fast, she realizes that he is not the same man who left either. He looks the same, sure, still effortlessly beautiful and effortlessly dangerous. But he has acquired a new weight to him. A new uncertainty. They are not friends. They are now drifting strangers. The silence continues and continues and Eponine is unsure of herself. She doesn’t know if she would have preferred a bullshit answer she could cling to. To convince herself that Montparnasse would never, but he did. And even now she doesn’t get to ask for a reason; because even now Montparnasse lives in a world where there is none.

Eponine wants to be angry. She wants to be _so_ angry, she wants to feel the blood build up in her temples and her fingernails dig into her fist, she wants her knuckles to bruise against the skin of Montparnasse’s fucking face. But. She is just so _tired._ She had grieved, she let herself have that, she let herself grieve for the death of a man who was not only her best friend, but someone she considered an equal. Someone more than family whose ties ran deeper than blood, with whom she’d been mixed together at the base. And everyday since he’d left she thought: _how am I supposed to do this without you?_ And every day she’d checked the obits, and every day she’d watched the news, because any one of them could have been him. Even worse, he could have been lying at the bottom of some mass grave with thousands like him and she would never have known.

But Eponine got so _sick_ of grieving. She got so sick of grieving that she got _angry_. And when Gavroche finally asked about him she cried, not because she missed him, but because her anger took form and leaked from her eyes. She couldn’t understand the betrayal, and then when all her anger leaked away, she was just left tired. But even though she was tired, she had Gavroche to care for and goddammit she couldn’t let herself go for him. Not for him. And so, she kept moving and kept living and she found love, maybe, and that love was taken, but Eponine was already so used to that, so used to losing that she didn’t want to bother feeling hurt about it anymore. And in letting go of her bitterness she could nurture a newer different kind of love. And she found friends. And she found friends that could become family. And she found a family, no, not found, she _made_ one. And now a distant part of her she thought was gone has shown up on her doorstep. No notice, and no warning, just all disaster.

But her anger is gone. And the bitterness she had built up to stave off the idea of missing him is breaking evenly and slowly. Eponine looks at him. _Really_ looks at him. His head is hanging like this is an execution; he probably thinks it is, his black hair is tousled but looks just as smooth as it felt earlier, and she bets he still conditions it regularly and does a hair mask at least once a week. He looks thinner, under his jacket. His pale skin in stark relief to all the black he is wearing. The red towel is pressed to his gushing nose. She doesn’t know if she wants him to meet her eyes. She wonders if he’s started graying yet and dyes his hair to cover it. She _looks_ at him: hunched in on himself, left without answers, and a life still tied to that invisible string she could never touch. That string would tug so painfully at him that it would pull him to faraway places with no warning and without her permission. _He will always come back_ , she had assured herself, before the grief set in, before she had convinced herself otherwise. And yet here he is, perhaps proving her right all along? Eponine feels like she is letting it go too easily as she sighs and sinks back into the couch.

“I never thought we would live to thirty.” She says, and god does she desperately want a cigarette, but she’d quit years ago because of Joly’s asthma. Of course, Montparnasse could encourage her old bad habits simply with his continued presence. Montparnasse looks up, and if she knew him better she might say he was shocked, but she no longer knows him well enough to say.

“I guess I didn’t think we would either.” Eponine sighs, the frustration pooling in her stomach at his words but no. It’s not going to work like this.

“We’re not the same people anymore.” Short, simple, sweet, and it’s a fact that Eponine can’t believe she has to keep reminding herself of, she doesn’t want to be so ready to forgive him. Not this time. It just, it can’t go back to the way it used to be. He _has_ to know this.

Montparnasse nods, but he is faraway, some big part of him is resigned, saw this coming from the get go, but is delighted that even something like this is going as he thought it would.

“We’re not the same, but that doesn’t erase everything you were to me,” Eponine continues, and her surrender reads in the slump of her shoulders, “How long are you staying?”

This comes easier to him, this he was never given an answer for: “I don’t know.”

Eponine nods, it’s only to be expected. But she does something contrary to what her gut is telling her to do, she speaks again, she is going to offer him this. This one thing. Because at one point in her life she was ready to die for him, alongside him, if she had to.

“I work mornings at the Corinthe. Five to one. No one ever comes to the Corinthe cause the place is a fucking health hazard, but the pay is good, and I get off in time to pick up Gavroche, but…because it’s so slow… I get bored.”

Montparnasse is speechless as he watches her struggle through the words. They are more than an insight into her life now, they’re an invitation to come inside, “I’ll be there. Eponine. Every day if I have to.”

She nods, but the only one she’s willing to risk in this exchange is herself, “ **But** you never come here again unless it’s absolutely necessary. And you don’t let Gav know you’re back under any circumstances. No accidents or mistakes or emergencies, if you’re dying and he picks up my phone, you die alone, are we clear?”

Montparnasse _did_ say he would do anything, “I swear,” and in a small voice, “on my own life this time.”

Eponine nods, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders, and suddenly feeling more tired than ever, she admits “that’s all I’ve ever asked for.”

The end comes quickly and silently; the air having swallowed up all the words they could have said. Montparnasse hands her the red dish towel, which she grabs before stalking off towards wherever the laundry must be. When she returns, he is standing by the door. They both know why he hasn’t left, but instead of soothing the wound it sits fresher and wider. Eponine’s face stays carefully blank and Montparnasse doesn’t know what to say. They stare for another second. Then Montparnasse slips out. And Eponine is left alone in her living room, wondering who the hell is going to clean up after all this is done.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I re-did this chapter because the first one sucked. This version (in my personal opinion) sucks less.


	3. Talking Is Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse and Eponine repeat the same lines in a different setting. Over and Over and Over again. It's not easy. And then it is.

When Montparnasse walks up to the Corinthe he feels something ease a little bit inside him. Yes, Eponine changed, so much so that she was almost unrecognizable, but at least the Corinthe managed to avoid the passage of time. It’s shambling store front is indeed still shambling, and the faded green awning is still tired and torn. The Golden lettering is, of course, cracked and the bell above the door still does not ring. 

The state of the inside is no better. The tables are old and worn with gum no doubt lurking on the undersides while the tabletops are victims to the patrons’ carving. The napkins still look like someone poured water on them and left them to dry naturally and the cutlery is still greasy and unpolished. 

Throughout all the time Montparnasse had known of it, there was only one redeeming thing about the Corinthe (besides the fact that Eponine now worked there) and it was the only thing which delayed its shutdown by the health department and prevented the establishment from going out of business. 

The Corinthe serves Paris’s best coffee and is both a hipster paradise and tourist trap. It makes Montparnasse proud, the kind of scam they run at the Corinthe: The rich love nothing better than getting a high-quality product in a shit place, feels more “organic,” and hell, the owner doesn’t have to pay for the cafe’s upkeep. 

At the counter, Eponine is leafing through a copy of vogue and there are no customers besides a homeless looking girl in a booth with torn seats. Montparnasse isn’t surprised, just on the cusp of four am, that the people out now have nowhere better to be. As Montparnasse makes his way to the counter the girl hurriedly looks away and sinks further into her seat. Well, Montparnasse can’t blame her, in those rags he’d avoid all detection too. 

Eponine doesn’t acknowledge that he’s walked in and doesn’t look up until he clears his throat three times. 

"Jesus Christ!” She throws down her magazine, exasperated, “Spit that shit out!”

“My friends call me ‘Parnasse, but—”

When Eponine realizes who she’s dealing with, she rolls her eyes so hard Montparnasse can almost hear the strain from where he’s standing. 

She sighs loudly, and her tone is impatient, “what’ll it be?”

Montparnasse grins, saddling up to the counter, “how ‘bout your number? And the time of your next break?”

“The most expensive thing on the menu it is! Great choice!” Eponine’s smile is too wide to be genuine, and if that didn’t give her away her fake cheery tone definitely did. 

Well, no one ever said this would be easy. 

Montparnasse seats himself at the counter and watches her work. Eponine moves with ease; twirling syrups and whip cream cans like a professional. The blender whirs as Montparnasse carves something of his own into the counter laden with initials and hearts. 

Eponine snickers when she sees it, sliding him his glass, “a dick? Really?”

“What can I say? It’s a classic.” Montparnasse finishes the last curve of the testes and there. Now it’s perfect. Complete even with slanted lines flowing out from the top to mimic semen. 

The drink Eponine has handed him is...gaudy to say the least. It’s a vibrant neon assortment of color topped with whip cream and unholy amounts of glitter. The sparkles should have cued him in immediately but determined to win _some_ sort of favor with Eponine, Montparnasse takes a big gulp of the glitter bomb beverage  

And immediately gags. 

“E-Ep what the fuck is this!” Oh god. He might puke. He can’t puke. He still has to—

Nope nope. It’s coming up. “Bathroom!”

And thankfully Eponine knows what he’s trying to say, “down that hall. To the left.” She says, smirking into the glass she’s polishing. 

As she watches Montparnasse in all his glory sprint helplessly to the bathroom, whatever lingering dignity he may have had falling to a swift death in a toilet somewhere, she can’t help feeling immensely satisfied. 

Okay so it was a little middle school, even if totally justified, but still revenge (no matter how juvenile) just tastes so sweet.

By the time Montparnasse stumbles back into his seat at the counter, Eponine is finished with all the dishes and Montparnasse’s rainbow beverage has melted and converged into a color that resembles puke. The sight of it makes him gag. 

“Jesus Ep, please just dump this out.” 

And maybe it was all worth it, cause Eponine lets out this burst of laughter that has everything seeming a little brighter, the sun illuminates her dark hair softly and the wood on the counter seems rich and welcoming. It even feels warmer, like sitting by a fire, somehow Montparnasse feels energetic again, as though he hadn’t just barfed up his entire meager breakfast. 

Eponine grabs the glass and dumps it out as requested, and her laughter glitters in the light. Okay. Montparnasse can officially say worth it. Just a little. Okay maybe he still regrets it like a lot, but she doesn’t have to know. 

“Still can’t stomach sweet stuff, can you?” And she doesn’t mean to, but seeing Montparnasse lose his cool entirely has her relaxing around him. 

Montparnasse scowls, “you can’t tell me _anyone_ would drink that.”

"It’s on the special menu. And you’re still paying.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He hands over a twenty and Eponine rings him up. As she hands him his change she gets this glint in her eye, the glint he should have recognized when she served him the drink. 

“We’ve got a tip jar you know. For the truly _phenomenal_ service we provide.”

“Phenomenal service is poisoning your clientele?”

“It certainly isn’t abandoning your only friend for six years.” She leans back against the counter, tossing her head to the side nonchalantly, “Sure, we can agree on that.” 

So, she wants to play dirty then. But, Montparnasse knows when he’s beat, and he didn’t come to make more bad blood, so he forks the rest of the money into the tip jar Eponine is innocently holding out to him. Basically, if he’s going to stay he has to pay. 

“This is prostitution. I should report you.” Montparnasse huffs, leaning his head on his hand as his fatigue from puking hits him. 

“Nah. That’s my Wednesday gig. This,” she gestures between herself and him, “is just business.”

Eponine takes his glass and dumps it out before she begins to scrub. “You couldn’t have come just to embarrass yourself, so out with it. What do you want.”

“To see you. To talk.”

“We’re taking” she drawls, still ignoring him by focusing her attention on the glass. 

“You know what I mean, Ep. Just... I don’t know, got any hobbies?”

She glares at him in answer. 

“No? Then why go to the Musain every Wednesday. You got an interest in bingo night now?”

“So, you’re having me followed now? Where else did your tails track me?” Eponine is fuming, it isn’t Montparnasse’s business what she does or doesn’t do, not anymore. “They tell you when I shit and piss too?”

Montparnasse smiles shaking his head clearly not picking up on Eponine’s distress, “only if I ask. But this isn’t about that. It’s about you. About us. I’m just trying to make pleasant conversation.”

Eponine shakes her head, wondering if this was the reason she’d stopped graying, because Montparnasse was gone. She’d forgotten how frustratingly cagey he could be about everything, and willfully ignorant of things he did not want to touch. But...she did tell him where to find her, which, for a thief, is basically giving permission.

 _Reconciliation_ , she reminds herself. 

“I don’t go for bingo. I’m part of this—this thing. We meet there Wednesday’s.” 

“What kind of thing? Is it smokers anonymous.”

 ** _Reconciliation_** … it’s just that he makes it so damn hard. 

“How’d you know I quit?”

“Ep. tails, remember? Also, I can’t smell it on you. It’s me we’re talking about.”

She doesn’t even realize before it’s happened that it’s the last straw. Her voice is low and strangled, wholly accusatory,“Why are you doing this?

“Doing wha—“

“Do you want me to be sorry? I’m not. I won’t be.”

It’s silent for a beat after this declaration and ‘Parnasse is thinking as hard and fast as he can to salvage the situation. 

“Eponine I didn’t mean it like that I-it’s just. No. Look we both moved on,” he spreads his arms wide, “we’ve made that clear. I’m not,” he takes a breath, “I’m not trying to guilt you or whatever you’re thinking. I just wanted to talk, like friends who haven’t seen each other in years catch up on stuff,” Parnasse holds out his hands palms up, as though placating a hurt wild animal, his voice is so soft it’s almost hard to hear him. “I just wanted to talk _normally_. That’s it.”

Eponine can realize when she’s gone too far. But it’s hard to let go of the judgement that’s served her well all these years. What’s giving too much too soon? What isn’t giving enough? Eponine isn’t sure herself when it will be okay. When she can forgive him. It’s just hard to imagine this not ending badly, with him it always does. Is she being too coarse? Over dramatic? His smirk and his posture say yes. But there’s a hardness in his eyes, the same hardness that’s in her heart. Are they both playing it too safe? Are they both afraid of getting hurt? 

At least to each other, they are mutually parasitic. And god she can feel herself relaxing into her old habits. A coarser self, one adept at hiding her heart from the world is remerging. A woman who’d squeezed her own heart dry so she wouldn’t have to suffer another cut. She’s not that person anymore, she couldn’t be with Gavroche and the Amis. But now it comes as easily as riding her first motorbike. 

And speaking of old habits, it hits her suddenly and unforgivably that she’d love a cigarette about now. 

And somehow, she isn’t surprised as Montparnasse pulls out a pack and slides it across the counter. She glares at him and fuck, what next? Lines of coke in the bathroom again? Shotgunning in her backseat? 

She snatches the pack off the counter, and almost wants to crush them but she doesn’t. And she can’t believe she’s letting him do this to her.

“I want the tails gone.”

“Done.”

She sighs, who knows if he’s being truthful, if this is a bad idea or not. It’s too late now anyway, she’d already opened the door. She can’t believe she’s going through with it when she gestures him behind the counter and into the kitchen, leading him to the alley behind the store.  

“I thought you’d quit.” Montparnasse observes smoothly as he gives her a light, his long bony fingers catching on the ridge of the lighter. Smoke billows between them as Eponine inhales deeply and exhales in ringlets just like she used to. Guess the body never forgets, does it. And that’s what being around Montparnasse is like. He’s too dangerous. Too suggestible. It’s like sinking into a shirt you forgot you owned, like smelling something that transports you suddenly to your childhood home and mothballs’ embrace. Being with Montparnasse is _easy_. 

And she hates how much it’s true. 

They don’t say anything in the alley for a while. Silently passing the cigarette back and forth, Eponine had insisted that she wouldn’t smoke an entire one by herself and so they shared the one.

It soothes something in Montparnasse, being like this. It’s like they’re fifteen hiding from the other foster kids and smoking Eponine’s dad’s cigarettes. He looks to her, leaning against the gritty wall of the alley, the shadows of the building contrasting her sharp features deeply. Her hair is so long. So much longer than he’d remembered. It’s all the way to her shoulders now and the shadows obscure the color even more, so it looks less like dark brown and instead seems entirely black. She breathes the smoke out slowly from her nose and tips her head back. 

“Your hair. You grew it out.” 

Her eyes are shut, listening to the sounds of the waking city as Montparnasse takes his hit. The morning rush of passing cars is picking up in pace as she drinks in the smell of burning nicotine and Montparnasse’s sickening cologne. She smiles wearily. 

“Yeah. I did.”

“It looks good.”

“Thanks.”

Another question he shouldn’t have asked then. 

“And how’s...how’s Gav?”

Eponine holds out her hand for the cigarette and takes another drag before answering, she’d tensed up at the question but relaxes as she exhales the smoke. 

“He’s good. Goes to school now, at least. And stays the whole time too. It took me, Feuilly _and_ Jehan to do that. Used to be he’d skip all his classes, say they’re too easy. But Enj was able to pull some strings and get him in the gifted program so—

“Wait, who?”

Eponine sighs deeply. This was the real reason she hadn’t wanted to divulge too much to him. Eponine was already uncomfortable with her past and her present colliding... she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand it if they were further entangled. Was that unfair to Montparnasse? Had he even earned the right to become something she could consider her future? 

“The thing. That’s them.”

“At the Musain?”

“Yes.”

Montparnasse, Sensing the line of questioning strained the conversation, tries to move it back to Gavroche. Which was, so far, the only thing Ep was willing to talk about. Since she’d barred Montparnasse from meeting him, it was probably the only thing he was going to get. 

“So, Gav’s taking his education seriously? That’s good.”

“Only because we make him.”

“And you? Ever start in on that music degree?”

“God, you still remember that?”

“How could I forget?” Montparnasse smirks at the memory, “you come to me stoned saying your gonna leave and run away to go to _school_ of all places! Here I thought you were finally gonna join Patron-Minette!”

Eponine laughs at his rendition of the event, feeling the happy weight of nostalgia settle in her bones.

“You’ll be glad to know then that I _am_ in school. Maybe not for music, but—

“Wait, really? What for?” Is Montparnasse excited? Is he betrayed? Is he both? Is the uncomfortable feeling in his chest incredible happiness, is the weigh on his lungs his gratitude made physical?

“Social work.” And just...how couldn’t he be grateful. How couldn’t he be happy for her. And he is, he really is. There’s a warm feeling blossoming in a place he hasn’t allowed in years. And he is happy. So, so happy he—

“Wow...Eponine. That’s-that’s amazing...”

Her smile is genuine, “thanks. Glad I have your blessing.”

When she hands back the cigarette there’s nothing left to smoke but ashes, so he throws it to the ground and puts it out. 

“I should probably get back,” Eponine asserts, “morning rush is gonna start soon.”

Montparnasse nods, “I should probably get going anyway. Business to take care of.”

They share another awkward silence in the space of wondering how to leave each other correctly. Unsure of What might be too familiar, and what might be too cold. Finally, Eponine sends up a mental fuck it and goes for it. 

A hug. 

Eponine smells like she used to now—her whiskey scent mixing with cigarette smoke in a way that reminds him of soft fingers carding through his hair. Of soft murmurings and a warm bed. She is so small in his hands, but so much more stable. Where before there was impatient twitching and restless hands, now is a steady grip to the front of his shirt, now he feels grounded instead of grounding someone else. They stay for a moment more, before parting ways. Careful not to let the atmosphere get away from them. It’s not like how it was. 

It’s different. But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. 

They part ways, and Montparnasse leaves the dark of the alley into the budding morning light.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, I'll take it slow.


	4. Taking Lists and Makin' Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's touring the facilities and picking up slack--Bizzaro's a girl with a short skirt and a loooooong jacket. (Coincidentally, Montparnasse is a girl with shoes that cut and eyes that burn like cigarettes.)

It happens again.

 

Bizarro is his ride this time; Guillermo begged out claiming he had new orders from Babet, something about greasing up the bartenders around for information, whatever for, Montparnasse didn’t care. Well, only as long as it didn’t get in the way of him doing his job.

Bizarro is a getaway driver of a different breed; she stands out too much with her multi-colored mohawk and death metal pumping out of the open windows of her parked car. It’s a wonder she’s never questioned by the police (at least not that Montparnasse has heard of, someone _did_ call in a noise complaint on her though. She was pissed for _weeks._ ) Montparnasse prefers Guillermo’s quiet reliability, but a change isn’t so bad all the time.

It really had been going fine at first, Montparnasse and Biz exchanging casual hair care routine tips on their way to the mark’s house, but when they pulled up Biz got in that stance of her she gets when she wants something unreasonable—hands on her hip and looking down through her nose—when she gets out of the car, making a point to slam the door shut (because her name’s fucking Bizarro, she gets to do crazy shit) as she announces that she’s coming in too.

Montparnasse sighs, thumbing the bridge of his nose before realizing he’s getting his face oily and yanking his hand away as though he’d burned himself on his glowing complexion, “Really, Biz, the point of a getaway driver is so that when the thief comes back the crew can, you know, _get away_.”

“Oh, fuck off it,” Biz grins, “We both know this job is shit-eating easy. Stop being a pussy, let’s go.”

The thing about Bizarro is that she is not to be denied, especially not by Montparnasse. He scoffs while crossing his arms over his chest, the leather strains with the heat of the gesture, they stare each other down for a few minutes, but Montparnasse knows a losing battle when he sees one.

“Fine,” he huffs. Extremely displeased, “How are we doing this?”

Bizarro smirks, a dangerous glint in her eyes, she lifts one eyebrow causing the ring pierced there to glint in the moonlight, “Last one there’s a fucking Parn-ASS!” She hollers and shoves past him, heading to the backyard of the house they’re robbing.

Montparnasse only barely manages to rein in his urge to throw up his hands and yell ‘fuck you!’ to the neighborhood, but he does it. “Where did the goddamn tact go in cat burglary.” He mutters, as he steps up to the front door. Montparnasse loves to take burglary as he loves to take most things, slow and as damaging to the psyche as possible _But,_ he’ll be damned if he loses to Bizarro here; she’d never let him hear the end of it.

And so, the race was on.

Around the back, Bizarro decides to take her usual route: she smashes the sliding glass door in, having wrapped her hand in her denim jacket. Entrance secured, she shakes her denim of the glass before putting it back on. Enjoying the crunch of glass under her feet, she whistles lightly as she steps into the house.

At the front Montparnasse is carefully and nonchalantly picking the lock. “My fucking god,” he mutters under his breath as he hears the clattering of glass caused a ways down by Bizarro. The lock clicks out of place and Montparnasse enters into the defenseless house of yet another rich dumb bachelor who, reconnaissance had shown, didn’t even have a proper alarm system installed.

At this point Montparnasse is almost missing the lasers. Almost.

When he stumbles into the foyer he comes across Bizarro swinging a bat into the seemingly ornate (yet fake, Montparnasse has an eye for these things) vases on a side table.

Montparnasse winces at the crash of glass and Bizarro’s wild laughter.

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“Didn’t you read the file Parn-Ass? Guy has a lot of enemies, no doubt some are ready to fuck him up. I’m covering our tracks, what are _you_ doing to help?”

Montparnasse rolled his eyes and gestures to the bat, “where did you even get that?” he asks.

She shrugs, smirking, “some closet somewhere.”

“Wow yeah, great work, getting your fingerprints all over the mark’s shit. Five star fucking plan.”

“Calm your tits asshole, see these?” She raised her hands, and the black leather glitters under the dim hall light, “they’re called _gloves_.”

Montparnasse groans, “Biz, can we just get this done?”

Bizarro scoffes, looking him up and down before dropping the bat unceremoniously onto the floor. She stalks up to him, leaning into his face real close, the garlic from the Italian place they’d gone to only hours before still heavy on her breath.

“Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my Parn-Ass.” She takes off one glove and stuffs it in her pocket, she turns back to him, still frowning deeply and smacks his cheek. Hard. His hands fly up to the stinging skin reflexively, he glares at her, “You had to fucking carve me with your claws?”

“Yeah. I did. Something’s up with you. You been off all day. You had _two_ fucking tails that Guillermo had to take care of ‘cause you didn’t even notice you’d fucked up. Like what the shit?”

“…Do we have to do this now?”

Bizarro grins, slipping her glove back on before taking a seat on the designer loveseat in the living room, she pats the matching couch across from her with a shit-eating grin, “step into my fucking office.”

And of course, Montparnasse can’t deny her; he owes her twice over. He sits with a grunt, and crosses his arms, “there’s nothing.”

Bizarro laughs, “Bull and Shit! Try again.”

“Look, Biz. I’m glad you want to do this whole heart- to-heart thing but—

“What you need to get laid? You miss what was his name….” She taps her claws against her chin thinking it over, “that Russian mobster that liked you? Chekov or something…”

“His name was literally just Alex.”

“Yeah, Asshole! What, you miss him?

“I didn’t even like him!”

“Bull meet Shit!”

“Okay, I mean he was fun to steal from but no that’s not it, Jesus! Is everything about dicks with you?”

“Pretty much.” She shrugs, leering at him, “but look! Dr. Biz is getting down to Biz-ness! There’s an _it_!” Her sing-song teasing grates on Montparnasse’s nerves, as Bizarro is someone who is obnoxious about _everything._ Which is fun at like, parties, but fuck, Parnasse doesn’t want to talk about this. He just wants to finish the job and go home. Everything he likes about stealing really is just ruined when Bizarro is there. No, that’s not true. It’s just. It’s just—

“Fuck, I’m not in the mood!”

Something switches in Bizarro then, she relaxes back in her chair, her fingers tapping absently against the leather couch, her lips downturned, and her eyebrows furrowed. Her tapping is furious and the only thing standing between them and silence before suddenly she stops. Her voice is low; Sure, and blunt, but tender.

The realization plays across her face and Montparnasse knows immediately she’s seen right through him, “You sought her out, didn’t you?”

“I—

“Even after Babet told you to stay away.”

“I—fuck. Yes okay. Yes, I saw her.”

Biz sighs and shakes her head, muttering a series of fucks in varying degrees of urgency. “She’s gonna have your head on a fucking platter you know. It could ruin everything! It could—!

“Biz, I play it right Babet will never even have to know—

“And you think you can keep that up? Fuck,” She mutters practically chewing on the tips of her gloves, “I should have known. The minute you came back today I should have known. You really think you can do this? Parnasse you had _two_ tails today. What if it was one of Babet’s watching you and not Guillermo? What the fuck then?”

“Biz, it won’t happen again, please.”

Biz shakes her head, “Look this isn’t Russia. And she’s planning something, I can feel it.”

“So, you’ll—

“I can’t promise anything, alright. She asks, you know I’m sworn to answer.”

“Biz—

“But! _Only_ if she asks.” Biz huffs.

“I—just—thanks.” Montparnasse hangs his head, why does it feel like he’s doing that so much lately? Has he become so pitiful that the only thing he _can_ do anymore is apologize?

“Oh, come off it. All this feeling shit is making me sick,” she bends down to retrieve the bat on the floor and tosses it to him, which he catches one handed and is really very impressed with himself, “Now let’s break stuff and steal this painting.”

Montparnasse angles the bat above the ridiculously nice television with relish, he too is also tired of the feelings shit, and after all the hits he took today meeting with Eponine he figures he earned some time to blow off steam.

“Fuck yeah,” he grins and brings the bat down.

And then, well, they smash the lovely upholstery and the expensive glass tables and cabinets, and effectively ruin the joint. Their trail of destruction begins in the foyer then spreads into the kitchen and down the hall and up the stair case. On the second floor they go around to all the rooms, the office, the guest room, the bathroom, saving the master bedroom for last. The mark had hung the painting above his bed, a desperate attempt they later learned, to impress his assistant (and it was about as futile as you’d expect).

Montparnasse goes on ahead of Biz to the bedroom (she got preoccupied stuffing the nice embroidered hand towels they’d spotted in the bathroom down her skinny jeans) to snag the painting. When Claquesous had shown him a picture, Montparnasse found himself disgusted by what he saw: the painting was of Paris’ glittering skyline made special by the rarity of the materials that were used to create it, and Montparnasse wasn’t sure what Paris the artist thought they were depicting, because his city had never been so clean and within the lines.

However, the godawful painting is notably missing from the long stretch of wall over the headboard.

Montparnasse knows instantly what occurred as a familiar scent overwhelms his senses, it occurs to him what the scent is, both from last time and now; ginger. Just enough to be noticeable, to be sweet, but as he nears the spice is nauseating in its sweetness, it is not unlike drowning as he wades nearer to the scene of the crime. Above the ornate headboard is the small perfumed card, and on it the same flowing calligraphic script as before:

> Paris,
> 
> I was a revolutionary and you were the cause. I slept under your
> 
> Broken bridges your
> 
> Citrus balconies and hid behind your lovers
> 
> I am a lover Paris, not a fighter
> 
> But I will challenge the Gods,
> 
> I will fight your suitors
> 
> I will make it so the whole world
> 
> Knows thy name.

 

“Motherfucker.” Montparnasse groans, dropping the bat.

As it clatters to the floor, Bizarro enters. Seeing the missing piece, the card, and Montparnasse climbing onto the bed to retrieve it, she laughs.

“Seems our mystery thief’s outsmarted you again, Parn-ass.”

He groans at the implication, stuffing the smooth scented cardstock into his pocket, “Don’t fucking start.”

 

 

Back in the car Montparnasse can barely think over Bizarro’s raging death metal screamo combination which she is so generously blasting at max volume. Any other day and he’d be right alongside her head banging without a care in the world, because why not? It may not be his style, but he’s someone who likes to have fun.

And isn’t that what this whole thing has been missing? _A little fun._ A grin overtakes his lips before he realizes it, and even _Bizarro_ notices. She had glanced over to the passenger’s side, put off by Montparnasse’s silence, but there he was grinning like a goddamn loon.

“What’s _your_ damage?”

Montparnasse quickly schools his features into the vision of calm and put-together. But he can’t hide the glint in his eyes from Bizarro, can’t mask his hand fingering the card in his pocket.

“It’s nothing, Biz.”

“Bull-Shit and a monkey’s uncle it’s nothing. Who are you and what have you done with angsty woe is me Parn-ass?”

“Ha-ha. You’re so funny. Really you could take that on the road.”

“Fuck off. I thought you’d be down about losing another one. Especially ‘cause this is like strike two for you,” she looks over at him, eyes severe, “Babet’s forgiving but not _that_ forgiving.”

“She’ll forgive me,” Montparnasse smirks, turning his head to look out the window and completely missing Bizarro looking to the heavens for strength. This boy.

“I forgot you were such a cocky bastard,” she sighs, “but we’re really losing a lot here. Even if Babet can be mollified the suppliers are a different story.”

“She can handle it.”

“Yeah, maybe now, but with these kinda things people can get cocky. You’d know all about that—

“Biz, it’s under control. They wanna pick a fight they just got it.”

“Fight? This is child’s play, we can take it to Claquesous tomorrow and he can—

“No,” Montparnasse turns to Bizarro, the joy bubbling over into his face before he can stop it, “this one’s all mine.”

Bizarro laughs out loud, shaking her head, “So you found one that’s struck your fancy, huh? God, you’re a sick fuck. They don’t know who they’re messing with.”

And there it is. Bubbling under his skin, it’s like Russia again, it’s like Paris is home again, it’s sweet, it’s dangerous, it’s _bubbling_ —

“No,” he laughs, “they don’t.”

 

 


End file.
